Chapter Four

Harry drifted into a deep, deep sleep.

He was standing in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but all of the tables had been removed. Aside from the twinkling nighttime stars reflected in the ceiling, the room was completely dark. Somewhere, an invisible violin was playing a slow, mournful tune.

Suddenly, out of the darkness where the teachers' table usually sat, two filmy figures materialized. Harry strained to see them in the blackness.. As he watched, the figures became more solid, and gradually he realized he was staring at two beautiful girls in silky, flowing red gowns: Quinn and Hermione.

They approached him slowly, with graceful, almost dance-like steps. Quinn's dress brought out the flame color of her hair; Hermione's accentuated the darkness of her brown eyes. Although they walked side-by-side, the girls never looked at one another – their eyes were fixed on Harry, and on both of their mouths played sensual smiles that made him weak in the knees.

When they finally reached him, Quinn on his right and Hermione on his left, they slid their hands up his arms and tugged him out into the center of the room. Harry's breath was coming in short gasps; he felt a tell-tale stirring down low in his stomach, and glancing down, he was surprised to find his tee-shirt and jeans had been replaced by emerald green robes that matched his eyes.

"Dance with me," Quinn breathed in his ear, pulling him gently away from Hermione. Harry suffered a moment of panic – he didn't know how to dance! – but before he could stammer an apology for his awkwardness, he was gliding easily across the floor with Quinn in his arms. He sighed happily as she settled her head against his chest. What guy could be luckier?

"Kiss me," she breathed, this time against his neck. Harry dipped his head and brought his lips to hers, surprised by how confident he felt. Their kiss was searing, without any of the innocent sweetness he'd known today; he half-gasped, half-moaned as her tongue pushed past his lips, combing roughly across the inside of his mouth. He gripped her waist to pull her tighter but his fingers kept slipping on the delicate material of her dress.

Harry…Harry, not her, Harry, dance with me…

At first, he thought he was having a dream inside a dream – a dream of Hermione calling to him while he was dreaming of kissing Quinn. Then he became aware of Hermione's hands on his shoulders, turning his dream-self away from Quinn. He started to protest until he saw how radiant she looked, bathed in a slit of silver moonlight and tilting her chin up invitingly to his.

"Dance with me, Harry, dance with me," she whispered sweetly, and he did. Once again, he found that he could guide her expertly around the floor. Laughing in surprise, Hermione taunted, "You said you couldn't dance!"

"I can't," he replied. "I think I'm dreaming."

"Shh." Melting into him, Hermione rested one finger against his lips. "I like that you dream about me, though…Kiss me, Harry…"

"But-but we're just friends," he protested weakly. Her finger was doing incredible things to his bottom lip, and he very much wanted to see if her mouth would feel as good as Quinn's against his.

She nuzzled his neck with her nose, and he was lost. "It's just a dream, Harry," she reminded him softly. "Just a dream…"

It was his turn to silence her, this time with a kiss. He was instantly aware of how different she was from Quinn: Hermione was star-light, Quinn was flame. Dimly, he realized the comparison didn't make much sense, but he couldn't really think with Hermione's hands tangling in his hair to urge him closer, her teeth biting gently into his lower lip, her slender body molded against his. A moan escaped him as his hands circled her hips; he was surprised to find her solid and willing, not slippery and elusive like Quinn.

They were sinking to the floor. Harry, almost lost in passion, was nonetheless vaguely aware of quiet sobbing behind him Wrenching himself away from Hermione, he twisted around to see Quinn standing helplessly nearby, tears streaming down her pretty face.

"Harry," she cried. "It was supposed to be me! You're supposed to fall in love with me!"

Hermione's grip tightened on his upper arms, and abruptly, her voice held a cold warning. "You're mine, Harry. Don't trust her. You're mine, and I'm yours, and that's how it's supposed to be."

For one agonizing moment, Harry was impossibly torn between the beautiful girl reaching out for him and the beautiful girl holding desperately onto him. Just when he knew he couldn't possibly choose between them, a horrible, blinding pain shot through his scar. He released Hermione with a scream and toppled backwards, falling – falling – falling…

"AAAAGGGGHHH!"

Harry woke with a start as his already-sore body landed hard on his bedroom floor. He lay trembling, covered in cold sweat, for a full minute before he realized he was still safely inside his aunt and uncle's house on Privet Drive, not in the Great Hall at Hogwarts facing…facing…

Facing what? An impossible decision between two amazing girls?

No. No, that pain, that had nothing to do with Quinn or Hermione. It was…It had to be…

Voldemort.

No getting around it – Harry had only experienced pain like that in the presence of the Dark Lord, whether Voldemort was actually in the room or, worse yet, attempting to possess him. Still shaking, he crawled back onto the bed and burrowed under the covers. He needed to write Dumbledore, or Lupin, or someone in the Order, he knew, but first he needed to calm himself down.

And what was he supposed to say in this letter? "Dear Professor Dumbledore: I was having a wet dream about Hermione Granger and this girl you don't know, Quinn, and then I had a pain in my scar. Much love, Harry."

Well, obviously not. But he did hope no one in the Order would ask him exactly what he'd been dreaming when he experienced the pain. Somehow, Harry didn't think he could ever live down the humiliation.

Feeling a bit steadier, he got up, keeping a blanket wrapped around his shoulders (he was unusually cold), and sat down at his desk. He was surprised to find it was nearly dawn. Hedwig should be back soon from her hunt, and then he could send these letters with her. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Harry wrote:

Professor Dumbledore,

I hope Hedwig finds you quickly. I had another terrible pain in my scar tonight. I think Voldemort may be close.

Sorry to bother you,

Harry

Rereading the letter, Harry nodded with satisfaction. He'd had enough of keeping secrets from Dumbledore and the Order; in the past, he'd been afraid of alarming anyone unnecessarily, but losing Sirius had taught him an invaluable lesson: He couldn't handle Voldemort on his own, and the people fighting the Dark Lord needed any and all information Harry could give them, even if it was nothing more than a pain in his scar. He sealed the letter and set it aside, awaiting Hedwig's return.

Then he turned to the letter for Hermione. Even though he was alone, Harry blushed as he recalled his dream with uncanny clarity – how small Hermione had felt in his arms, how sweet and firm her lips had been against his, how hungrily her hands had curled into his hair…It was like she was starving for him, like she'd been waiting forever for him to kiss her. A familiar tickle shot through Harry's stomach and he rubbed furiously at his temples, as if that could erase the images from his dream.

Apparently, he had a crush on Hermione. Okay, so he really should have known that all along, instead of refusing to think about it every time a tender feeling for his best friend rose up inside his chest. And now he was in a predicament, because he didn't want to hurt either her or Quinn, but he couldn't decide which one he really wanted to be with.

And, of course, he couldn't be sure Hermione returned his feelings – she'd never let on if she had a crush on him, at least. Should he ruin what was starting between he and Quinn until he knew how Hermione felt, if she felt anything at all? But (and here was the real rub) how was he supposed to find out how Hermione felt? He couldn't imagine asking her – how mortifying if she looked sadly at him and said she only thought of him as her friend!

Why not wait until Hermione gets here to tell her about Quinn? Then you can gauge her reaction, see if she's jealous…

Harry found himself nodding along with the small voice inside his head. He didn't know when he had become so devious – thinking up such plausible answers to Quinn's queries yesterday, and now this – but he was glad he had. Crumpling his first letter into a ball, he tore out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote:

Hermione,

Can't wait to see you. The Dursleys weren't mad at me, so don't worry. We're going to have a great summer.

See you soon,

Harry

As he reached for the envelope, Harry experienced a brief twinge of guilt. He was playing with fire here; either Hermione or Quinn one were bound to get hurt if he wasn't honest (or as honest as he could be) with both of them right from the start. But the hesitation lasted only a moment. He would sort it all out once Hermione arrived – it wasn't like he wasn't ever going to tell her about Quinn, he just wasn't going to do it in a letter.

Hedwig landed on the window sill and hooted a good morning to him. Before he could change his mind, Harry sealed Hermione's letter, grabbed the other one and tied them both to Hedwig's leg. "Give that one to Dumbledore and the other one to Hermione," he instructed her, stroking her snowy feathers. "And be careful."

Hooting cheerfully, Hedwig turned and soared back out into the sky. Harry stood staring after her for a long while, hoping he'd made the right decision. The morning air felt heavy with impending rain.

He had a feeling another storm was on its way.